Like The Wings Of A Dove
by RedVelvetWings
Summary: Sherlock couldn't live with rules and it had brought darkness upon him. Mycroft wanted to save him. Mycroft wanted to save him from his life he had torn to pieces by himself.He didn't want to be saved.He wanted to save John from the darkness he saw slowly spiralling down around his friend.But how? And there was Mary always saving John, healing him. Post Reichenbach Winglock
1. Prologue

The wind was horribly cold in his face as it blew fiercely over the rooftops, stinging like little blades. Sherlock didn't care. All he cared about was John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade…his friends.

"Your friends will die if you don't," echoed through his head as he stood at the edge of the rooftop, looking down onto the pavement beneath him: grey frequently coloured by passersby.

Sherlock had tried to wrap his mind around the fact that this was the final outcome, even though there had been hope. One heart-stopping minute ago he had seen a flicker of hope, that eventually everything would turn out a different way, but now there was only the echo of Moriarty's words in his head.

"Your friends will die if you don't." The echo was tumbling around in his mind and he wanted it to stop. The only way out of this was obvious. Moriarty had done really well, teasing him with the illusion of choice and then snatching it away. Tricky little bastard.

His phone was at his ear. He heard John. He heard the fear in his friend's voice, but he wasn't really hearing what John was saying. He felt himself answer then and now, not knowing what he was saying.

Everything he took in was John as he stood there on the pavement. He was sorry. Sorry that he had to go. Sorry that he had to leave John like this. It was for John's own good. There just wasn't another way, but it hurt nonetheless.

A tear slipped down Sherlock's face as he stood there on the ledge, his eyes still fixed upon John. His emotions were totally getting out of control and he wasn't even really and truly saying goodbye to anyone. He was just taking some time off, if you wanted to look at it like that. But even having to stay away from John and Mrs. Hudson set something free in Sherlock that he wasn't comfortable with or used to feeling.

_Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side_, his own words echoed now through his head, replacing Moriarty's words with his own. As he spoke, the voice he heard sounded odd.  
"Goodbye, John."

He heard John stuttering and he felt something strange spread inside him as he looked at his friend, standing on the street, looking up and seeing him. He knew John was probably an emotional wreck already, because that's just what people got reduced to when they witnessed someone committing suicide.

Sherlock felt on the brink of crying, which he actually hadn't been since his childhood. And then there was still that strange feeling spreading through all his limbs and filling him up. It choked him and he felt like he was going to break, even though that was physically impossible.

Taking his eyes off of John, he let his phone slide out of his hand, hearing the crack as it hit the concrete. He spread his arms, looking straight ahead, but in front of him he didn't see the sky and the clouds and the grey houses and skyscrapers. He saw Mrs. Hudson. She had always been there for him. Always caring. Always just herself around him. Scolding him and repeating his name over and over again in that way only she could. He saw Lestrade, how he sighed over him. How he shook his head over the incredible (but to him always ridiculous) deductions, which had always proven to be right. And he saw John. Saw him laughing. Saw him screaming. Saw him just as the person he was. His friend.

He closed his eyes. This was it. Now was the time to stop staring, to stop being sentimental. He couldn't change things anyway, and when had he started caring about what other people thought?

But still…As Sherlock fell forward, one last thing, one last thought danced through his mind.  
_I'm sorry, John_, was what shot through his mind before the pain came. The unbearable pain that suddenly spread though his body, starting at his shoulder blades.  
In the distance he heard John scream his name, but Sherlock knew that he was going to be silent in mere seconds, knocked over by the cyclist.

The air hitting his face was cold. It felt like it cut into his face, but it was nothing compared to the still spreading pain. But then he heard the crack, felt his back bend awkwardly and suddenly it was all over. The pain was gone.

Perfect timing, Sherlock noticed as he opened his eyes, seeing himself hanging a few feet above the grey pavement. A glance behind him showed that Molly had set up everything perfectly. He saw John in the corner of his eyes as he sank down next to the corpse. The affirmation, that Sherlock had been right all along. John was strong, but Sherlock knew this would wreck him.

He hovered there a little longer, glancing backwards, and again the detective felt like he was going to break. He was really starting to ask himself what was wrong with him, when he decided leaving would be best.

The air around him started shifting again and Sherlock wrapped his coat around his body. He didn't fear anyone seeing him. No one could see him. And no one would ever see him. Not in this form. Because no one could see angels, even if they were fallen ones.


	2. Chapter 1

Hey just dropping to give you the new chapter.  
I don't own anything other than the idea of the story.

* * *

There she stood, laughing, bright blue eyes sparkling with happiness.

John watched the woman from afar, mesmerized by her beauty. To every other man she might have been too childish, or maybe some wouldn't have liked her high cheekbones, but John found that she was more than beautiful from the moment he spotted her from his seat on the bench under the tree.

He had come to Russell Square Park to get some fresh air—Mrs. Hudson had wanted to shove him back into society for quite some time—so he had fulfilled her wish and gone for a walk. It had been on that very first day that John had spotted her, and ever since he had come here quite frequently, always sitting on the same bench, always seeing her with a bright smile on her face.

Coming to the park had become a new constant in his life. It had given him something which distracted him and it had given him something to look forward to.

At first his limp had bothered John, as walking showed clearly that one of his most hated problems had returned. He had been furious, he had wanted to rip things apart because his limp now was a reminder that Sherlock was gone, but he had started to adjust again. He had started going back to how things had been before he had known Sherlock, the cane his new (and old) friend and his nightmares his worst enemy. Instead of them being about the war in Afghanistan, they now starred crimson red blood, dark curls and a pale lifeless body clad in a Belstaff Coat.

He was okay, though. He had managed with Clara's and Greg's and Mrs. Hudson's help. Molly had been there for him and even Mycroft had come to talk to him. He had been able to move on, and how broken could he be when he was currently pining after a woman?

'Actually still quite a bit. You haven't fully moved on even though you fooled everyone else. Sherlock would have figured you out within seconds', the little voice inside John chimed sweetly, cutting deep with the truth.

He pushed the thought to the back of his mind, willing it away and telling himself that he was fine, as he stared at the flowerbed with its red and yellow flowers.

John let his eyes drift back to the woman who was now wandering over a small path between several of the blooming flowerbeds. The woman she had been talking to had rejoined a group of other women dressed in grey slacks, heels and blouses, obviously business women out for their break. John had seen them here before and was pretty sure it was the same group as always.

But as his gaze swept back to her John's thoughts went astray. That one part of him which had urged him to come back to the park every so often was sick of watching. It wanted John to go over there and do something. It was also the part which was sick of sadness and depression, the part which was slowly moving forward when the rest of John kept on clinging to the past and to the memory of Sherlock.

'Oh, to hell with it all', John thought and pulled close his cane which had been resting against the bench. He got up and made his way over to where she was kneeling in front of a beautiful pink blossom.

He wasn't too sure about what he should say now that he was actually standing next to her. He couldn't quite say why though. It wasn't like he hadn't talked to a woman before, but somehow he couldn't manage more than a simple `Hey´.

She looked up and John could see that she was slightly startled, but there was still that smile curving her lips and her eyes watched him with warmth and kindness. It all made it so impossible for John to look away.

Her face wasn't one of those smooth baby faces. It was cut rather sharply with her high cheekbones and a strong jaw line, but it didn't make her look odd, more along the lines of an exotic beauty not every man was drawn to.

Her unique face was framed by dark brown waves which fell over her shoulders like waterfalls of chocolate, but the thing which mesmerized John the most were her eyes which were of a grayish blue color and seemed to shift from a bright blue to a more grayish color depending on the light.

She smiled warmly at John and he was dazzled for a moment. He didn't even notice that she had greeted him with a warmhearted `Hey´ until several seconds later, when John was shaken from his stupor.

"That's a really beautiful blossom you found there," John said, a small smile spreading over his face as well. She nodded and went back to examining it.

"Yeah, it really is, isn't it?" She smiled even a bit wider before she stood up to face him. "So may I ask for your name?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. It's John." He felt a bit stupid now but the damage was done and it really had been far too long since he had decently talked to a woman.

"My name is Mary. It's nice to meet you, John." Her eyes were now examining John like she had examined the flower just seconds before.

"Would you care for a walk?" she asked nicely when she had stopped examining John and settled on looking into his eyes. John felt the blue pools absorb him and he felt like he couldn't look away. He nodded in response and tightened his grasp on the cane again before they were wandering off, through the flowerbeds and back onto the main path. From time to time, John felt Mary's gaze wander to his limping leg so it didn't surprise him when she finally did ask about it.

"Can I ask what happened?" she asked, but instantly realized that she shouldn't have asked so bluntly.

"I'm sorry. You don't have to answer that." But John just smiled even though there was a tug at his heart, reminding him of the reason for his limp.

"It's okay. I'm used to people asking." The smile slowly faded as he tapped his temple. "It's all up here. It always has been. I never was injured in a way that would have caused such a limp. It's psychosomatic." Mary nodded. John wasn't sure whether she had really understood, but let the matter go. The less he was reminded the better.

Mary and John walked through the park, making small talk. She revealed more and more about herself and the more John got to know about her, the more he grew fond of her.

Mary was very open-minded and as kind as her eyes had predicted. John learned that she was teaching at an elementary school on the outskirts of London and that she loved parks and gardening.

When they had finished their walk Mary was still smiling and even John's face was alight with a faint smile. "How about drinks tonight?" John asked, more confident than he felt, but Mary's constant smile was still on her face.

"Sure." They made arrangements and exchanged mobile numbers before she headed off to catch up with her friend and a few other people she seemed to know.

John felt himself still smiling as he looked after her. He didn't know how he had swung from one extreme to the next within a month, but as he pondered it his mind clouded over. John felt a coldness spreading through him, making him shiver. He shrugged it off, thinking he might have gotten cold and headed out of the park, looking for a cab.

As John finally slid into the backseat of a cab the sun was reflected from all the windows and the world seemed bright and new. He took a deep breath and gripped the edge of the backseat as the cab started moving. With palms pressed against the cool surface and eyes closed, John took another deep breath and warmth and excitement started spreading through him. It was how he had felt when he was with Sherlock, running after a suspect or going to a crime scene. Right now in that moment John felt as if Sherlock never died. He was positive if he opened his eyes now he would find Sherlock sitting next to him, his eyes scanning the crowd passing by the window outside or looking at the buildings sliding by in a blur of bricks and glass. Sherlock's emotionless mask would be displayed on his face, but John would know about the excitement spreading inside Sherlock.

But Sherlock wasn't sitting next to him as John opened his eyes. The feeling of warmth and excitement faded and he was left with the unbearable emptiness which had embraced John after Sherlock died, and John remembered why he had avoided cabs so much over the past month. Because right here, alone on the backseat, no one was there to distract him. Nor was there anything he could distract himself with. It was just him and his grief as the cab drove through familiar streets and there was nothing John could do about it.

Sherlock felt his wings flex and stretch behind his back. The black feathers rustled as they moved against each other and were stirred by the soft breeze blowing over the edge of the building. People and cars passed beneath Sherlock as he stood on the edge of the building, looking down.

He felt the urge to jump, to fall, to fly away, but he couldn't, obviously. Taking his eyes off the street below him, Sherlock ruffled his hair, frustrated that he couldn't be with John and frustrated because he was not making any progress right now.

A white feather floated through the air and danced in front of Sherlock's eyes. He caught it with ease, knowing that his visitor had arrived. Hearing the beating of wings in the air followed by the almost inaudible sound of two feet meeting the concrete confirmed that Mycroft indeed had come to see him.

As usual Mycroft wore a grey suit with his red tie. His snow white wings stretched out behind him making him look even more authoritarian than he usually did. His normally blue eyes were of a bright shining blue which was almost white and icy cold, telling everyone that he was not just any other angel, but a watcher, destined to wander the earth and observe the humans as Mycroft had done from the beginning of time, only then and now allowed to interfere in human affairs.

The only thing making the image laughable was Mycroft's black umbrella. Sherlock didn't understand why he would always carry the damn thing around with him, but even angels would over time adjust to human habits such as carrying an umbrella around when they lived in London.

"Hello, brother," Mycroft said as one of his faint smiles spread over his face. He took a step toward Sherlock, his wings stretching and beating at the air just like Sherlock's were. It was a clear sign that he wasn't used to them anymore. That his wings hadn't stretched for a long time. Sherlock couldn't even remember when he had last seen Mycroft like this.

"Mycroft," Sherlock nodded as a greeting, his face still emotionless. He wanted this meeting to be over as soon as possible because the only thing Mycroft would do was give him a lecture, just like always.

"Where have you been? Taking down Moriarty's imps?" Mycroft asked, and Sherlock could detect a hint of concern in the nephilim's voice.

"No, way too dull, even Lestrade could take them down if you point him in the right direction once. They've gotten way too sloppy since Moriarty disappeared. You haven't seen him either, I presume." Sherlock was almost one hundred percent sure that even Mycroft with all his eyes and ears didn't have a clue were Moriarty was.

"Can we even be sure that he is still here? I rather doubt he is." Mycroft's voice was now as calm as always which annoyed Sherlock just as it always did. The nephilim was now composed as ever, betraying not the slightest trace of emotion.

"He is, believe me. He loves this game far too much to give it up at the beginning. He won't be gone till I'm dead for good. My fall and his death were supposed to strip me of my reputation and my friends, nothing more. He knows I won't show in society because he would kill John and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Maybe some of his bastards have already sneaked their way into my friend's life." Sherlock's voice was full of bitterness and hatred. He loathed Moriarty for everything he had done and still he knew that they were just the same only on different sides of the battle.

Sherlock turned around, facing the edge of the roof. Bricks and glass, asphalt and concrete, blue sky stretched before him. Sherlock took a deep breath as he heard his feathers rustle in the wind.

"Did you have an eye on John?" Sherlock asked, his back still towards Mycroft. There was silence for a moment and Sherlock could hear London breathe in long breaths as the city swallowed everyone and anyone.

"Yes, I had, two as often as I could spare them." Mycroft stepped closer until they stood side by side. "He manages, or so he tells himself, but on closer inspection he is not all well." With Mycroft's last statement the nephilim gave Sherlock a shove and finally he fell, rushing towards the pavement. His wings stretched out wide and Sherlock floated over cars and pedestrians. Mycroft was right by his side, his white wings a harsh contrast against Sherlock's black ones.

"See for yourself," the watcher said, pointing at a cab a few cars ahead. A strong beat at the air and Sherlock floated next to the window from which John observed the pedestrians on the pavement.

_Body language says tensed. John's grip on the bench of the backseat indicates fury or sadness, as clenching his fist is one of John's habits. Neither fury nor sadness could be excluded because he is indeed furious even though only to the slightest degree. Cane next to John says limp came back. Dark circles under his eyes hint at the fact that John hasn't slept well for weeks, probably since my fall; which indicates that his nightmares, too, have returned. He might have his emotions in check when he is around others, letting them believe that he is alright, but when alone, John still mourns and grieves, but no one knows. _

Sherlock's wings beat at the air again, bringing him back to where Mycroft was still flying above the cars and busses. They flew silent for a moment, Sherlock's eyes never leaving John's cab.

"Do you plan on ever going back as Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, this time with a hint of concern swaying in his voice. Sherlock searched him for a hint or clue, but there was none.

"I don't know, maybe. It would be a way to lure Moriarty out of hiding." But Sherlock's mind was already racing, creating a plan. There was one loophole and if he got John to believe, he would get him back.

"Just be careful, Sherlock. For you caring is not an advantage. You will lose everyone in time and you know that," Mycroft said, knowing that Sherlock would hear him even though he was already gaining altitude and taking off toward home.

By the time John reached Baker Street he had recovered as best he could from his former downfall. He stood tall as he climbed out of the cab and walked over to unlock the door to his home. As he made his way through the hallway he met Mrs. Hudson, dusting rags in hand, cleaning every available surface.

"Oh, John!" she exclaimed, but a smile spread over her face. "Where have you been, dear?" she asked while scrubbing the railing of the stairs.

"Out, as you wanted me to be." John sighed and looked down at his watch. Five more hours till he would meet Mary again and he didn't know how to pass the time. He felt close to the brink of falling again, but he wouldn't let himself, not if he could prevent it.

"Good. Would you like to have a cup of tea in about an hour, dear?" Her eyes were still on her work, but John didn't mind. She was just distracting herself, just like he often did.

"Yes, that would be nice. I'll head up though, I need some rest." John smiled at Mrs. Hudson as she glanced at him, but she obviously didn't know what to make of that.

John headed up the stairs, eager to escape real life and hide away in the coziness of his home. John's thoughts had often ghosted to how he would afford the damn flat on his army pension, but hadn't really started worrying about it. Mrs. Hudson hadn't asked yet and didn't seem to be bothered as she herself was still struggling, but they had to talk about it sooner or later.

The doctor shrugged off his coat and took off his shoes before he slumped down into his chair by the fireplace, his eyes scanning the flat. A few boxes were scattered all over it, mostly housing Sherlock's chemistry equipment. Still here and there one could spot an Erlenmeyer flask or a test tube. Apart from that Sherlock's case files were still lying on every surface. Sherlock's letters were still pinned to the mantelpiece and Sherlock's skull sat right beside them. It pretty much looked as if Sherlock was still living there.

Averting his eyes, he looked at his hands which lay clenched in his lap. He took a deep breath and got his mobile out of his pocket, texting Sarah about shifts at the clinic. He then took his book and made an effort to immerse himself in the story, without much success.

Soon enough, Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door, carrying a tray with two cups and a pot of tea. She smiled at John as she set the tray down on the side table.

They had tea together and John told her about his meeting with Mary. As soon as she heard about John meeting a woman, something about her changed. It was relief, John guessed, that rushed over her because John had finally made the step back to a normal life. John was glad that he had put her at ease. There was no need for her to worry about him.

When Mrs. Hudson left, John got up and cleaned the kitchen, which looked like a battlefield as he hadn't done the dishes for day. When he had finished up he went up to his room and got his laundry. By the time all his clothes lay folded on his bed it was seven thirty and John quickly changed into a new shirt before grabbing his coat and clutching his cane.

He took the tube this time. More people, less silence. It was ten minutes to eight when John arrived at the place where Mary wanted to meet him. Five minutes later he spotted her brown hair in the crowd of people passing him. Together they walked to Mary's favorite bar just down the street.

It was a nice place which was not overly crowded. John ordered drinks for them and Mary slid into one of the few booths in the back of the bar. Within minutes she was smiling again and John couldn't help but smile back at her.

They sat talking for an hour; Mary had just told a story about one of the boys in her class, which had them both laughing, when John's phone rang. He didn't even notice at first and when he did he felt the urge to ignore it because Mary made him forget about the outside world, made him forget about all his worries and his grief. It was the last ring when John finally answered the call.

"Watson," he answered, not knowing whom to expect on the other end of the line as he hadn't seen the caller's ID.

"John! Finally I've got you. This is Angelo." John was confused at first. The name Angelo didn't ring a bell, but after a few seconds he remembered that he was the restaurant owner Sherlock helped out.

"What's the matter, Angelo? And how in hell did you get my number?" John asked, curious now. He took another sip of his beer, waiting for Angelo to answer his questions.

"It doesn't matter now where I got your number. Someone broke into my restaurant." John was taken aback. Why was Angelo calling him about that? The police would have probably been the better idea.

"Okay, but why are you calling me about that? I'm not Sherlock." He felt the icy fist around his heart again, but shrugged the feeling off.

"No, but you will want to see this. I think it has something to do with Sherlock. It's a message of some sort." Sherlock, it shot through John's mind. A message. Sherlock left a message. There was the possibility that he was still alive. Sherlock could be alive.

"I'm sorry, Mary. I've got to dash. It's really important." She smiled at John as he got up, telling him it was okay and that she would call him tomorrow. Then John was out of the bar and down the street. The only thing on his mind was Sherlock and the possibility that he was still alive.

The cane stood lost and forgotten against the bench of the booth.


End file.
